zg_shadows | An intro - posted in the right place this time

High above the streets of a sleepy country town a pair of amber eyes glared at the cobbles below. He was here somewhere, he had to be, the scent had been clear despite his attempts to mask the trail. Markos was an old adversary who had often eluded her in the past but tonight she would triumph. A movement in the shadows made her turn, tabby ears flicking forward to catch any sound from below. An observer, such as the amused one higher on the roof, might note that the cat on the roof was not only several hundred miles too far south for a Scottish wildcat, but also considerably bigger than the usual size. A particularly perceptive observer might also note that the average wildcat would not stamp its paw in frustration. This cat did, in sheer annoyance. She had been so sure that he was…

The sentence remained unfinished as both cat and the unseen observer tumbled from the roof in a yowling ball of fur. A second observer would have seen that the shadows near the chimney had shifted to reveal a grinning wolf. This second, and metaphorical, observer might have commented that roof slates are not a natural position for a wolf and so would have been unsurprised when rather than creeping up on its prey the wolf slipped and barrelled both itself and the cat into the street below. Despite this both animals seemed to keep their wits – the cat twisting and attempting to run while the wolf clamped its jaws firmly on the scruff of its neck.

“Got you,” it grumbled round a mouthful of cat fur “that’s four-two to me.”

The cat wrinkled its nose then looked around. The street was ill lit and there were no cameras or observing windows. In a stomach turning mangle of fur, skin and bone the cat shifted into a red haired woman who gently prized the wolf’s jaws from her neck.

“Drat you, I thought I had you there.” She grumbled in a good natured way, averting her eyes as the wolf morphed sickeningly into a rangy looking man who flicked tinted glasses out of his pocket to hide the odd yellow colour of his eyes.

“Darlin, you always do have me.” Pipistrelle grinned delightedly.

“You’re a rotten flirt Markos.”

“And you love it.” He drawled back, taking her arm in his. The pair strolled down the street giggling like schoolgirls.

Later in the week Pipistrelle flew into a haven just ahead of the dawn, pulling in her wings to fit through the narrow opening. Inside were new scratch marks in the wood. Markos, Pipistrelle, regret, north and the south crossed out – the message was clear: her friend couldn’t come south with her. Something had made him change his plans and head north instead. There were no marks for danger or caution so it wasn’t anything bad – shrugging her wings Pipistrelle closed her eyes to sleep. His loss, she thought.

Moving south Pipistrelle stopped for a night at a site in Surrey that was almost complete. One night quickly became five as she lost herself in the work, taking up her tools at dusk and only just leaving in time to avoid the dawn. Under her hands lumps of wood and stone became graceful, romantic shapes perfect for the newlywed’s first home together. Over the doorway roses seemed to grow out of the very sandstone, eventually to intertwine with the flower the imitated once the gardeners had been. Finally, on the last evening before the couple would view the finished house Pipistrelle climbed a tall ladder and carved a tiny bat just under the eaves of the house and another on the gatepost – a sign to those who knew it that this was her creation and that it was safe. In years to come children would run their hands over the bat on the gate and wonder why it was there, just as she had done decades ago with the mouse under the table. The other would only be seen by bats and those that could take the form of bats. It was a very small vanity in her opinion.

Finally the woman stopped her house just south of Cambridge. Having chased Andre through the London domain in the past she knew where the boundaries lay, but that had been a fleeting visit and she didn’t expect the Prince to remember it. The Sign had been riddled with talk of London in the last year and half: all the Gangrel of the city dead in a Sabbat attack; the Cavendish line all but gone; Prince after Prince being announced and finally this last Prince changing the rules of the game entirely. There had been rumours of great danger in the city, but also of opportunity and fresh thinking. Lately the gossips had mentioned an unprecedented number of the clan in London gathering under a Viking leader. That sounded too interesting to miss, Pipistrelle had never seen a real Viking before. It was also said that the Prince had fought off werewolves but that was dismissed as the results of Chinese whispers – what fantasy some people came up with. Still, best to wait here until the next court, it wasn’t too far away by all accounts. There was a new project about to start in the city and she could do with a few nights to plan. The company didn’t usually do refurbs but this was a chance to completely gut and rebuild an old townhouse which was too good to miss – as well as the convenient excuse to be in London for a while. For now she had a sketch book and the client brief for London, by the time the court came around she should have some sketches and then she could go into the city and see the house itself. The couple wanted to take it back to its Regency roots and from the pictures they had provided that should be more than possible. They would need a good plasterer though. A theme of oak leaves perhaps…

Pipstrelle absently tapped a pencil against the desk and started to sketch. The next morning Anika found the piles of sketches drifting from the desk to the floor and carefully closed the door. She would work from the main office today, she knew better than to disturb her sister’s work.

annwfyn that's 1,063. And for anyone that wondered, the icon is her beastform.